


Absolution

by shihadchick



Category: U2
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2002-11-09
Updated: 2002-11-09
Packaged: 2017-10-22 09:26:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,842
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/236570
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shihadchick/pseuds/shihadchick
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Christmas Eve. Adam. Larry. Angst. Set in New York after the Zoo TV tour...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Absolution

**Author's Note:**

> POV switches from chapter to chapter, it should (hopefully) be apparent when it does... Thanks to Izzy, Mandi and Joy for beta help.
> 
> (Note: This is very, very old. VERY.)

I catch myself, not for the first time, staring into the murky depths of a bottle.

Seeing only you.

Fuck.

Surely there's more to me than this. Surely I have more to think about than you. Sadly, my subconscious doesn't seem to want to agree. So instead I'll dwell on the feelings I shouldn't have, on the desires I can't entertain. I know it's wrong. Not just because of the consequences - and God only knows how out of control those could get. Not just because we are who we are. Tabloid field day, it would be. But because I know it can never happen.

This is wrong. Damnit. It's fucking wrong. I mustn't- I shouldn't- I can't do this. Not to myself, not to you. I don't know how much longer I stand being torn like this. Between the image and the reality, the needs and the possibilities, the way that everything tells me I'm supposed to behave. And the way I want to behave. Nothing is solid, nothing certain any more. No standards to base any new experiences on. No scales to measure them by. And the only map out of this labyrinth is crumbling to ashes, flames licking away more of it with every step I take.

I try to shake off the black mood, the bitterness that cloaks me, that must almost be visible in the shadows of the yard. Paste a smile on my face as I lean against the wall, careful to stay out of the orbits of the smiling luminaries swirling carelessly around me. I guess it's a decent party. We've been here a couple hours. Supposed to do the old 'meet and greet' routine with the shining lights of the New York scene. I suppose I've enjoyed myself. Haven't really spoken more than a few words to anyone. I'm quite happy to stay in the background. The limelight was never mine. I never needed it.

Almost twelve years, now, I've been happy to stay in the wings. Hiding behind Edge, behind Bono, even behind you. And not just when we're playing, but in pictures and interviews and everything else you've all worked so hard on. Don't get me wrong, I never got into this to be a 'rock star', and it's not that I want all the attention, all the girls fawning over me and all the journalistic bullshit and arse kissing; all in the name of a decent headline. I don't need that, and I'm grateful that I'm usually spared it. Because of you. All three of you, but you especially. You look out for me. And right now, I feel like I'm coasting. Like I'm slacking off and leaving you to pick it all up. If I didn't know better, I'd say you were being protective.

You'd never believe it and never admit it, but I think so.

It's probably just all in my head. Another tiny glimmer of hope to torment myself with. More evidence to build up a fragile little castle in the air, something for you to tear down around my ears the first time I let one wrong word slip out.

Or maybe that's just the Guinness talking. Funny. I've never been drunk and morose before. I can normally hide a while in the alcoholic haze, drown just a little, until everything is distant and painless. I know I've been doing this too often. Escaping into the phantom grasp of one beer too many. Dulling my senses along with my pain.

It's not working tonight.

I don't feel like me any more.

...Where am I?

************  


It only takes one look at you to know you're well on your way to being absolutely plastered. Again. The steady hand as you raise the bottle to your mouth suggests otherwise, but the glassy gaze and the bitter twist of your lips tells me the truth. It's a battle we've all waged before, and it hurts every fucking time. You're supposed to be the strong one, the solid one. You're supposed to be our backbone. Keeping us on level ground, anchoring us into the real, the rational, the goddamned right thing to do.

And here you are doing exactly what you've spent more than half your life stopping us weaker mortals from giving in to. Chasing self destruction, with open hands and wide arms. Fucking embracing your own annihilation.

And I think I know why.

I'm lying to myself again. I've gotten good at that recently.

Or maybe not recently. Maybe for a long time. But it's a lot more difficult to hide from myself these days.

I know why you're drinking. And why I should be the one to go over there, and stop you. Take that bottle out of your hand and get you home. Pull off your shoes, and put you to bed.

God.

I want to. And not just for friendship and solidarity, and to keep you safe, although that's all a part of it. Not just because you've done the same - and more - for me. I want to go home with you and slide into bed with you; to feel the sheets cool underneath us, and wrap my arms around you and feel your warmth beside me. I want to be with someone. Someone who cares for me. And I know you do. Care for me, that is. Hell, if you didn't, you'd have booted me out the door long ago. You don't exactly suffer fools - or idiots, or fuck-ups, or even good old fashioned pure stupidity - gladly, do you? God knows I'd have deserved it...

I think I'm lying again... I want to be with you. That's what this comes down to. Because, all ego aside, I could have almost anyone I wanted, couldn't I? God knows enough people throw themselves at me - at all of us - these days. And yet, it's not enough... or it's not what I want. Not any more. This chasm inside me keeps getting wider and deeper and the only time it seems to close even slightly is when you're around. And even that's in question these days. The chaotic mess that masquerades as my mind keeps warping everything I say and think into a huge blur of pain and desperation, until that's all I can feel, all I can draw on, all I can focus on.

We should be on top of the world. An outside observer would think we have everything... number one albums, sold-out gigs, the adoration of fans worldwide. Four friends who've made it big, made their seemingly futile dreams a reality.

Friends. Christ. It's so rare these days to even think of that. I think I can say without a doubt that the ways I think about you have gone far, far beyond friendly. It used to be so simple. We were mates, brothers, and we would talk and laugh, and comfort each other if we needed to. Never any of this torture over every word and action we exchange. On my part, at least. I wish I knew how you felt. If you feel anything here more than pure friendship.

For someone who's living in the same goddamned apartment as me, I never seem to even see you. And every time I do see you, you're frowning, or distracted, obviously worrying at something, but you won't talk to me. "Everything's fine, Adam." "Don't worry, Adam." "For Chrissakes, go out and get LAID, Adam." Well, okay, you didn't exactly come out and say that last, but I think you've been thinking it. The tension when you are around isn't exactly subtle, and there's only so much a guy can do about that... Come to think of it, you're probably out with someone, aren't you? It would explain why you've been so touchy about your privacy the last couple weeks, and God knows you've never lacked for offers.

I just never thought my name would be on that list.

I wish you could open up to me again, Larry.

I miss that. I miss talking to you.

I ... fuck. I miss you.  
**********  


Oh, and I really don't feel at all well now. A brief mental checklist leaves me nursing a catalogue of woes. All self-inflicted, of course. Head, spinning. Hands - whole body, really - shaking, little tremors that distract me, threaten to let me sprawl undignified to the floor should my suddenly weak knees give out as they threaten to do. Thousands of tiny aches and pains suddenly clamouring for attention. My back has taken advantage of the breach in my defenses, nerves beginning to seize up, blinding pain imminent. Drinking on this was a bad, bad idea. Not for the first time, I swear to never skimp on my exercises again. Then one injudicious movement later and I'm just plain swearing. Adam's always said I've got a dirty mouth. Guess I'm demonstrating that amply now... God, I want to go home. I'd prefer to get there without having to deal with you, but we've got a scene to play out here, don't we, Adam? And it looks like you're hitting your blocks perfectly now.

"Lar'? Time to go home." You take the bottle from my fingers, and set it down on the table. Normally I'd fight you, both on principle and for the sheer hell of it, but tonight... I'm too tired. Too hurt. I let you lead me (I'm always following you, aren't I?) out onto the street, and you hail a cab, give quiet voiced instructions to the cabby and pull me into the back seat. For once, he actually seems to know the difference between East and West, and I find myself giving a purely mental sigh of relief as we start to reach familiar territory; each block, each billboard, a milestone closer to my bed. The ache is swarming ever more tightly knit to my bones now, and I realise with a start that the entire theatre district has passed without my noticing. That must be some sort of record. The driver turns down one of those little alley ways that only New York cabbies seem able to find, a short cut apparently reserved for those who dare these streets every day, and the crunch of tires on cobblestones echoes through my head, joining the cacophony of other sounds to hammer me further into the seat. A whimper slips out to mingle with the night air as we slide back onto a main road, the jolt as the road surface changes enough to jostle my head from where it leans against the window and make every muscle lock up in terrified anticipation of the pain to follow. And you murmur something low and soothing, fingers gentle as they settle lightly on my shoulder, stroking up over my neck. I don't resist as you carefully rearrange my slumping figure, let you support the dead weight of a body becoming slowly less and less responsive, my head pillowed against your shoulder, a safer and sweeter rest for the remaining minutes of our journey. And the entire time, your fingers slide from my neck to my collar and back up into my hair; a pleasant little monotony that drains a little of the tension, softens and calms angry nerves.

I wince stumbling up the steps, despite your supporting arm at my waist, and by the time we hit the elevator sharp pain is radiating out from my spine at rapidly decreasing intervals. I can barely restrain the sigh as I lean against the wall for several blessedly still moments.

Then a quiet beep, and you're jingling keys and we're inside the living room. I don't remember walking from the lift, so either I blanked out again, or you carried me. I don't want to analyze that thought, I really don't. It's far too attractive.

Five more steps, my feet dragging through the thick carpet - it's too much effort to lift them - and I'm in my room. I can barely see, as you've mercifully left off the lights, but the bed is a dim outline just beside the doorway. You push me gently onto it, and tug off my boots. I turn my head into the pillow, it's still spinning, and god, lying down is so good, so... still. But I feel so terribly alone. Even with you here.

I want you to stay.

So badly. I... and fuck, I hate this word, but... I need you to stay.

Not because of sex or love or lust or anything like that.

Well, maybe. But I want it because you're my friend and I need you. How do I ask you that? How do I casually say "So, Adam, fancy sharing a bed with me tonight?" I can't. As much as I'd like to wake up to Christmas morning with you... I can't.

We've done this before and it never gets any easier. One of us has to break.

One has to act. Or speak. Someone has to make the first move. And by God, I hope it's not my turn.

I look dumbly up at you, my eyes catching yours, and then I'm falling again... just like the last time...

********

Three years ago we were curled up together in a decrepit room in Berlin, listening to the rain dance across the roof, and watching that same rain creep in slow dribbles down the walls from the leaky ceiling. I was wide awake, the lights from passing cars flickering around the room, hardly blocked by the dingy curtains; just watching you doze, squinting in the dim light... and then you opened your eyes, and smiled at me.

That smile.

You licked your lips, and curled into me; told me in that low, sultry, just-barely-accented voice of yours to go to sleep already... and then you closed your eyes again, and sighed.

I think you fell asleep instantly.

I just lay there, dazed. You and Bono are always going off at me about keeping things inside, not talking, never letting other people know what I want. Maybe there's a reason for that.

I've been keeping secrets from you, Adam. I know you hate that. But you'd hate what I feel even more. You'd have to. I have to bury it, bury it so deep that I don't even think about it any more. And if I play a little harder tomorrow than usual, I'll just be pounding out some frustration on the drums. And it'll just be the odd lighting in the studio making my eyes red. The echoing beat track combined with the stress of trying to pull something new, something good from all this, that makes my head ache and my eyes water. Honestly.

It scared me how intimate it was. I didn't think it was supposed to be, but... it was. I don't think I'd ever truly realised what it could be like, to sleep with another person, even without sex involved. To be hyper-aware of every move they make, to analyse every fidgeting toss and turn, to wonder if they're curling close and pressing into you because it's you, or because you're just a warm body on a cold night.

It'd never felt like this before, with anyone. I'd had no idea. So odd to think that in the midst of despair, in a city that seemed to be falling apart even as we did, as everything we'd worked for the last twelve years began to crumble and crack at the seams, that was when I realised how much I'd been missing out on. All it took was the right person... even if it never was more than one-sided.

I worried I'd wake you. I almost wished I didn't have to breathe, it sounded too loud...

Thinking... thinking 'I shouldn't be here. I should be in my own bed, across the room, lying awake there and not worried about how every move I make could disturb you.' Thinking 'you're too good to me', 'I don't know why you do this...'

Sometimes I thought it was just because it *was* cold, and two sleep warmer than one. That I'm just paranoid and stupid and lonely. That the emotional drain, the chill in the air to match the ice dividing the four of us was all that was driving us together.

You shifted beside me again, your hip pressing warmly into mine, and I had to resist the urge to slide even closer to you. Slink inside your warmth and hide. Fuck, Mullen. Stop it. You. Can't. Do. This.

No.

And that night wasn't the last time that I shared your bed, either. Every time we'd ended the day with fights and recriminations, every time we poured heart and soul into that tiny room and got absolutely nothing back, every time we had to come back to a grey and lifeless temporary home, every time fear and anxiety, depression and weariness became too much for either one of us, I'd crawl into your bed.

I couldn't even blame you. All my good intentions of 'never again' went out the window the second the door to our room closed and I had to actually face the prospect. I was the one who asked you, hesitantly, haltingly, the second time if you minded sharing again. I think I mumbled something about it being warmer, clinging desperately to the excuse, before falling over the stream of "if you don't mind" and "only if that's ok with you"s that poured from my mouth, feeble justifications, only spoken because I was so terrified of annoying you. Hurting you. Trying your patience. 'Please, God, let him like me still...'

I'd lost the other two, couldn't have coped if I'd lost you, too. 'Pillar of strength' and 'backbone of the band' bedamned. I needed someone to lean on, then, just as badly as any one else.

And you were so reassuring - even when you were the one who was hurting, who was lonely. It got to the point where we no longer even spoke about it, just moved towards the same bed as if it were nothing. Maybe it was to you. And it was easier to get a little closer with each night. Until we'd curl together like puppies in the litter, sprawled so closely you couldn't tell one body from another.

It was pure accident the first time you kissed me. No amount of planning, of paranoia, nothing could persuade me you'd planned that. And it wasn't even a proper kiss, truly. Just your lips brushing air-light over my knuckles as we shifted sleepily one morning. And contrary to popular literature, it barely even registered with me. Despite those nascent feelings and desires I battled to keep out of my conscious mind and thoughts. Seemed so natural, in the slow honey light of early dawn to raise my hand to your lips, for you to lap lazily at the pads of my fingertips, tiny damp spots fizzing arousal through me. That woke us both up. But it woke us up smiling.

And neither of us could see the harm. Or the danger. It was all play, all touch for the sheer effervescent joy of touch. A logical follow-on when you were as comfortable with another's body as your own. No harm in waking up a friend with the gentle swipe of one's finger across a cheekbone, much preferable to the harshly intrusive buzz of an alarm. No danger in anointing careless open mouthed kisses to the bare back one rested against, in being at once affectionate and a little annoying. Just a way to blow off a little steam. To relax, when girlfriends were miles away, when you'd decided not to bother with those who offered themselves to you on a nightly basis. A way to reconnect with our friendship, to re-establish bonds strained by the demands of recording and everything that was changing around and within us.

Halcyon days, dizzying with freedom, with promise.

Until, slowly, their number started to drop off.

And I'd spend more nights in my own bed than in yours.

It was never discussed. Just something that happened. A little corollary to easier times, to go along with days where the music actually came. Where there was more singing than raised voices. And I didn't protest, either, because it felt more and more like what we'd been doing meant something. Like it meant something I didn't want to - wasn't ready to - deal with. Like something had changed inside me, as if my feelings hadn't shifted and run together until they'd formed an altogether new matrix, something shatteringly different that grew and solidified a little more every time I got close to you. As if everything I'd pushed away that first night was clawing its way up again, desperate to rein free.

But 'not as often' wasn't the same as 'never'. And we still spent some nights together. Just when we really needed it. Needed the contact, the closeness. The comfort of another person. You never said no. You never told me to take a running jump. And that more than anything was what convinced me that it did mean nothing to you. So I just kept repressing. Torturing myself.

I went back to my girlfriend. Pretended it had meant nothing to me, too. That I hadn't been unfaithful to her, in thought if not truly in deed. Tried not to think about you... about your warmth and your hair and your eyes and the way I'd wake up in the morning aching for you. Feeling you hard against me. That was another thing we didn't talk about. Perfectly normal, natural male fact of life. I guess you figured I was too embarrassed or something. Not for the reasons you think...

**********  


If you were any other man - almost any other person on this earth, even - I'd say that you looked almost pathetic, lying half-trashed on your bed. You haven't moved an inch since I helped you inside, just looked silently up at me, your body sprawled on top of the covers, hunched in on yourself like you're afraid to move. But 'pathetic' is a word that could never be applied to you. And not for any of the bullshit macho reasons the general public would assume. It's just not in your genetic make-up; you never give up, you never give in, for heavens sake, and you won't abide pity in any way, shape or form. You'll barely accept even sympathy most times. You make it so hard on yourself, Lar'. So cautious, so careful to not cause any one else pain on your behalf that you lock it all up inside yourself, hide behind that staunch, distant façade. But when you do break down, when it does become too much even for you, it's usually me that you come to. And God help me, but I treasure that. That trust, knowing that you know I'm always here for you. I just wish I could be there more often.

A thought that has been teasing the edges of my mind ever since we left the party finally clarifies, and I look harder at you; only now putting together all the tiny, usual clues... those faint lines around your eyes, pulled tight, the quiver that shakes your arm every now and then, the way you're breathing so shallowly, and how you winced as I hauled you out of the cab. And the pain - real, physical pain - that is reflected in your expression.

"Shit, Larry... your back's giving you trouble again, isn't it."

It's not even a question, more a bald statement of fact, and I have to restrain my initial impulse to yell at you, tell you how goddamn stupid you are to go out and get drunk and aggravate it as you've obviously done. I'm not your mother or your keeper. I'm your friend and it's past time I start acting like it again.

You sigh, and straighten up, just a little, the wince even more pronounced now, and before you can even say a word I'm digging through the drawer beside the bed, finding the pain-killers and pressing one to your lips. Not the smartest thing to do with a man who's not exactly this side of sober, but I can't bear to see you like this, and you manage - thankfully - to swallow it dry, before croaking your thanks.

I move dazedly to the bathroom, bring you back some water, and as you sip it carefully, I realise you're not quite as inebriated as I thought.

"Lar?"

I'm not certain the half-moan, half-mumble that follows my query counts as a reply - not even sure how well you're understanding, but I keep talking anyway. Now that I've got you as a captive audience, for once, I may as well take advantage of it. And if you don't remember any of this the next morning, well, that's all for the best.

"I wish you hadn't done this. You should have told me you weren't feeling too well, I wouldn't have minded leaving earlier." Understatement of the century, there. Boring party anyway. Although, aw, hell, so much for not scolding him...

The only reply I get to that is something that can charitably be described as a groan, but your eyes are still open, watching me carefully, and I'm not exactly getting the impression that you'd prefer me to 'bugger off and leave me alone', as you have so colourfully suggested on other occasions.

Standing over you as I am is beginning to feel unbalanced, not to mention tiring, so I sink to the ground and lean against the wall, knees folded up in front of me. You're still managing to focus on me, so I take that as an encouraging sign to continue my monologue.

"I wish we'd got to spend a bit more time together at the party, you know, Lar. I feel like I haven't seen you in weeks." Was that a wince? "And we've only been here a fortnight, so… I don't know. You've just seemed sort of distant recently. New girlfriend?" Definitely a wince. Hmmm. And here I was thinking my flippant careless tone was going so well. The bitter jealousy must have been evident in some way for that sort of reaction.

Then again, maybe you'd just prefer me to shut the fuck up.

That's always an option, isn't it?

"Those pills kicked in yet, mate?"

A nod, this time, and the simple fact you've managed to move your head tells me that something must be working already. I can't help the relieved smile that flirts across my lips at that thought. I hate to see you hurting.

"C'mere."

The words are hoarse, almost indistinguishable, forced out past a drugged tongue and pulled grotesquely out of shape by the slur of the alcohol still in your system.

But I still obey, wriggling forward on my knees until I'm right beside the bed, our eyes almost perfectly level. I crook an eyebrow in question, and wait, more or less patiently, for your response.

"Missed you."

Again, the words are slurred somewhat, but you've spoken so quietly that even had they been spoken with perfect clarity I would have had to strain to hear you. And I feel the impact of those quiet words as an avalanche through my chest. The raw feeling behind them shines through, calling an answering twinge from me, and I have to quench my initial impulse to fling myself at you because there is no way that you're meaning this the way I'm aching, desperate, so tempted to hear it.

Is there?

Jesus H, Clayton. Get a grip. This is Larry here. There is no way he'd ever be after you. Not least because you're another guy. A band mate. A friend. A fuck up on the epic scale.

But, there was that time-

No. That doesn't count. Doesn't mean anything. So what if I spent more nights snuggled up to you than I did with any women? Who cares if I slept better breathing in your skin than I ever did with Naomi? It was just a friend thing. Something that happened. No. Big. Deal.

Not to you, anyway.

"Missed you too, Lardence."

Somehow - and I'm more than likely just getting my hopes up for nothing, but, damnit, it's Christmas Eve and I'm letting myself have my fucking hopes for once - I'm getting the feeling we're not just talking about tonight. That we're meaning the time we've spent in this big city, all the time on tour, every minute that's passed since the last time we held each other.

"'m fuckin' knackered, Sparks."

Your words are running together now, and your eyes are closing, although I can see you're fighting it. Looks like those painkillers do act as a sedative, even combined with alcohol.

Shit. I really shouldn't leave you like this, should I?

 _... excuses, Clayton, just excuses. Aren't they? You're just looking for any reason to clamber into his bed._

It's not safe.

 _...it's also not the first time he's done this, and, oh, my, nothing's ever happened before, has it?_

You doesn't want to be alone.

The mocking voice inside my skull has no answer to that one, the mute plea in your expression tugging at parts of me I thought I'd locked off and barred aeons ago.

"Larry." One clear, perfectly pronounced, extremely deliberate word. I want your attention, as much of it as there is remaining. I wait, let you gather your energy, the faint nod enough of a salutation for me to go on.

"Would you like," somehow, my voice is perfectly level, perfectly normal, "me to stay here with you?"

Can't give any sign of how important this is to me. Can't let even a hint slip free.

And by some miracle, when you raise crimson-flecked, pained eyes to meet mine, sheer desperation naked in your face, I keep my own expression blank, hiding the fierce thrill that rushes through me as you whisper

"Please..."

********

I catch myself, not for the first time, staring into the murky depths of a bottle.

Seeing only you.

Fuck.

Surely there's more to me than this. Surely I have more to think about than you. Sadly, my subconscious doesn't seem to want to agree. So instead I'll dwell on the feelings I shouldn't have, on the desires I can't entertain. I know it's wrong. Not just because of the consequences - and God only knows how out of control those could get. Not just because we are who we are. Tabloid field day, it would be. But because I know it can never happen.

This is wrong. Damnit. It's fucking wrong. I mustn't- I shouldn't- I can't do this. Not to myself, not to you. I don't know how much longer I stand being torn like this. Between the image and the reality, the needs and the possibilities, the way that everything tells me I'm supposed to behave. And the way I want to behave. Nothing is solid, nothing certain any more. No standards to base any new experiences on. No scales to measure them by. And the only map out of this labyrinth is crumbling to ashes, flames licking away more of it with every step I take.

I try to shake off the black mood, the bitterness that cloaks me, that must almost be visible in the shadows of the yard. Paste a smile on my face as I lean against the wall, careful to stay out of the orbits of the smiling luminaries swirling carelessly around me. I guess it's a decent party. We've been here a couple hours. Supposed to do the old 'meet and greet' routine with the shining lights of the New York scene. I suppose I've enjoyed myself. Haven't really spoken more than a few words to anyone. I'm quite happy to stay in the background. The limelight was never mine. I never needed it.

Almost twelve years, now, I've been happy to stay in the wings. Hiding behind Edge, behind Bono, even behind you. And not just when we're playing, but in pictures and interviews and everything else you've all worked so hard on. Don't get me wrong, I never got into this to be a 'rock star', and it's not that I want all the attention, all the girls fawning over me and all the journalistic bullshit and arse kissing; all in the name of a decent headline. I don't need that, and I'm grateful that I'm usually spared it. Because of you. All three of you, but you especially. You look out for me. And right now, I feel like I'm coasting. Like I'm slacking off and leaving you to pick it all up. If I didn't know better, I'd say you were being protective.

You'd never believe it and never admit it, but I think so.

It's probably just all in my head. Another tiny glimmer of hope to torment myself with. More evidence to build up a fragile little castle in the air, something for you to tear down around my ears the first time I let one wrong word slip out.

Or maybe that's just the Guinness talking. Funny. I've never been drunk and morose before. I can normally hide a while in the alcoholic haze, drown just a little, until everything is distant and painless. I know I've been doing this too often. Escaping into the phantom grasp of one beer too many. Dulling my senses along with my pain.

It's not working tonight.

I don't feel like me any more.

...Where am I?

************  


It only takes one look at you to know you're well on your way to being absolutely plastered. Again. The steady hand as you raise the bottle to your mouth suggests otherwise, but the glassy gaze and the bitter twist of your lips tells me the truth. It's a battle we've all waged before, and it hurts every fucking time. You're supposed to be the strong one, the solid one. You're supposed to be our backbone. Keeping us on level ground, anchoring us into the real, the rational, the goddamned right thing to do.

And here you are doing exactly what you've spent more than half your life stopping us weaker mortals from giving in to. Chasing self destruction, with open hands and wide arms. Fucking embracing your own annihilation.

And I think I know why.

I'm lying to myself again. I've gotten good at that recently.

Or maybe not recently. Maybe for a long time. But it's a lot more difficult to hide from myself these days.

I know why you're drinking. And why I should be the one to go over there, and stop you. Take that bottle out of your hand and get you home. Pull off your shoes, and put you to bed.

God.

I want to. And not just for friendship and solidarity, and to keep you safe, although that's all a part of it. Not just because you've done the same - and more - for me. I want to go home with you and slide into bed with you; to feel the sheets cool underneath us, and wrap my arms around you and feel your warmth beside me. I want to be with someone. Someone who cares for me. And I know you do. Care for me, that is. Hell, if you didn't, you'd have booted me out the door long ago. You don't exactly suffer fools - or idiots, or fuck-ups, or even good old fashioned pure stupidity - gladly, do you? God knows I'd have deserved it...

I think I'm lying again... I want to be with you. That's what this comes down to. Because, all ego aside, I could have almost anyone I wanted, couldn't I? God knows enough people throw themselves at me - at all of us - these days. And yet, it's not enough... or it's not what I want. Not any more. This chasm inside me keeps getting wider and deeper and the only time it seems to close even slightly is when you're around. And even that's in question these days. The chaotic mess that masquerades as my mind keeps warping everything I say and think into a huge blur of pain and desperation, until that's all I can feel, all I can draw on, all I can focus on.

We should be on top of the world. An outside observer would think we have everything... number one albums, sold-out gigs, the adoration of fans worldwide. Four friends who've made it big, made their seemingly futile dreams a reality.

Friends. Christ. It's so rare these days to even think of that. I think I can say without a doubt that the ways I think about you have gone far, far beyond friendly. It used to be so simple. We were mates, brothers, and we would talk and laugh, and comfort each other if we needed to. Never any of this torture over every word and action we exchange. On my part, at least. I wish I knew how you felt. If you feel anything here more than pure friendship.

For someone who's living in the same goddamned apartment as me, I never seem to even see you. And every time I do see you, you're frowning, or distracted, obviously worrying at something, but you won't talk to me. "Everything's fine, Adam." "Don't worry, Adam." "For Chrissakes, go out and get LAID, Adam." Well, okay, you didn't exactly come out and say that last, but I think you've been thinking it. The tension when you are around isn't exactly subtle, and there's only so much a guy can do about that... Come to think of it, you're probably out with someone, aren't you? It would explain why you've been so touchy about your privacy the last couple weeks, and God knows you've never lacked for offers.

I just never thought my name would be on that list.

I wish you could open up to me again, Larry.

I miss that. I miss talking to you.

I ... fuck. I miss you.  
**********  


Oh, and I really don't feel at all well now. A brief mental checklist leaves me nursing a catalogue of woes. All self-inflicted, of course. Head, spinning. Hands - whole body, really - shaking, little tremors that distract me, threaten to let me sprawl undignified to the floor should my suddenly weak knees give out as they threaten to do. Thousands of tiny aches and pains suddenly clamouring for attention. My back has taken advantage of the breach in my defenses, nerves beginning to seize up, blinding pain imminent. Drinking on this was a bad, bad idea. Not for the first time, I swear to never skimp on my exercises again. Then one injudicious movement later and I'm just plain swearing. Adam's always said I've got a dirty mouth. Guess I'm demonstrating that amply now... God, I want to go home. I'd prefer to get there without having to deal with you, but we've got a scene to play out here, don't we, Adam? And it looks like you're hitting your blocks perfectly now.

"Lar'? Time to go home." You take the bottle from my fingers, and set it down on the table. Normally I'd fight you, both on principle and for the sheer hell of it, but tonight... I'm too tired. Too hurt. I let you lead me (I'm always following you, aren't I?) out onto the street, and you hail a cab, give quiet voiced instructions to the cabby and pull me into the back seat. For once, he actually seems to know the difference between East and West, and I find myself giving a purely mental sigh of relief as we start to reach familiar territory; each block, each billboard, a milestone closer to my bed. The ache is swarming ever more tightly knit to my bones now, and I realise with a start that the entire theatre district has passed without my noticing. That must be some sort of record. The driver turns down one of those little alley ways that only New York cabbies seem able to find, a short cut apparently reserved for those who dare these streets every day, and the crunch of tires on cobblestones echoes through my head, joining the cacophony of other sounds to hammer me further into the seat. A whimper slips out to mingle with the night air as we slide back onto a main road, the jolt as the road surface changes enough to jostle my head from where it leans against the window and make every muscle lock up in terrified anticipation of the pain to follow. And you murmur something low and soothing, fingers gentle as they settle lightly on my shoulder, stroking up over my neck. I don't resist as you carefully rearrange my slumping figure, let you support the dead weight of a body becoming slowly less and less responsive, my head pillowed against your shoulder, a safer and sweeter rest for the remaining minutes of our journey. And the entire time, your fingers slide from my neck to my collar and back up into my hair; a pleasant little monotony that drains a little of the tension, softens and calms angry nerves.

I wince stumbling up the steps, despite your supporting arm at my waist, and by the time we hit the elevator sharp pain is radiating out from my spine at rapidly decreasing intervals. I can barely restrain the sigh as I lean against the wall for several blessedly still moments.

Then a quiet beep, and you're jingling keys and we're inside the living room. I don't remember walking from the lift, so either I blanked out again, or you carried me. I don't want to analyze that thought, I really don't. It's far too attractive.

Five more steps, my feet dragging through the thick carpet - it's too much effort to lift them - and I'm in my room. I can barely see, as you've mercifully left off the lights, but the bed is a dim outline just beside the doorway. You push me gently onto it, and tug off my boots. I turn my head into the pillow, it's still spinning, and god, lying down is so good, so... still. But I feel so terribly alone. Even with you here.

I want you to stay.

So badly. I... and fuck, I hate this word, but... I need you to stay.

Not because of sex or love or lust or anything like that.

Well, maybe. But I want it because you're my friend and I need you. How do I ask you that? How do I casually say "So, Adam, fancy sharing a bed with me tonight?" I can't. As much as I'd like to wake up to Christmas morning with you... I can't.

We've done this before and it never gets any easier. One of us has to break.

One has to act. Or speak. Someone has to make the first move. And by God, I hope it's not my turn.

I look dumbly up at you, my eyes catching yours, and then I'm falling again... just like the last time...

********

Three years ago we were curled up together in a decrepit room in Berlin, listening to the rain dance across the roof, and watching that same rain creep in slow dribbles down the walls from the leaky ceiling. I was wide awake, the lights from passing cars flickering around the room, hardly blocked by the dingy curtains; just watching you doze, squinting in the dim light... and then you opened your eyes, and smiled at me.

That smile.

You licked your lips, and curled into me; told me in that low, sultry, just-barely-accented voice of yours to go to sleep already... and then you closed your eyes again, and sighed.

I think you fell asleep instantly.

I just lay there, dazed. You and Bono are always going off at me about keeping things inside, not talking, never letting other people know what I want. Maybe there's a reason for that.

I've been keeping secrets from you, Adam. I know you hate that. But you'd hate what I feel even more. You'd have to. I have to bury it, bury it so deep that I don't even think about it any more. And if I play a little harder tomorrow than usual, I'll just be pounding out some frustration on the drums. And it'll just be the odd lighting in the studio making my eyes red. The echoing beat track combined with the stress of trying to pull something new, something good from all this, that makes my head ache and my eyes water. Honestly.

It scared me how intimate it was. I didn't think it was supposed to be, but... it was. I don't think I'd ever truly realised what it could be like, to sleep with another person, even without sex involved. To be hyper-aware of every move they make, to analyse every fidgeting toss and turn, to wonder if they're curling close and pressing into you because it's you, or because you're just a warm body on a cold night.

It'd never felt like this before, with anyone. I'd had no idea. So odd to think that in the midst of despair, in a city that seemed to be falling apart even as we did, as everything we'd worked for the last twelve years began to crumble and crack at the seams, that was when I realised how much I'd been missing out on. All it took was the right person... even if it never was more than one-sided.

I worried I'd wake you. I almost wished I didn't have to breathe, it sounded too loud...

Thinking... thinking 'I shouldn't be here. I should be in my own bed, across the room, lying awake there and not worried about how every move I make could disturb you.' Thinking 'you're too good to me', 'I don't know why you do this...'

Sometimes I thought it was just because it *was* cold, and two sleep warmer than one. That I'm just paranoid and stupid and lonely. That the emotional drain, the chill in the air to match the ice dividing the four of us was all that was driving us together.

You shifted beside me again, your hip pressing warmly into mine, and I had to resist the urge to slide even closer to you. Slink inside your warmth and hide. Fuck, Mullen. Stop it. You. Can't. Do. This.

No.

And that night wasn't the last time that I shared your bed, either. Every time we'd ended the day with fights and recriminations, every time we poured heart and soul into that tiny room and got absolutely nothing back, every time we had to come back to a grey and lifeless temporary home, every time fear and anxiety, depression and weariness became too much for either one of us, I'd crawl into your bed.

I couldn't even blame you. All my good intentions of 'never again' went out the window the second the door to our room closed and I had to actually face the prospect. I was the one who asked you, hesitantly, haltingly, the second time if you minded sharing again. I think I mumbled something about it being warmer, clinging desperately to the excuse, before falling over the stream of "if you don't mind" and "only if that's ok with you"s that poured from my mouth, feeble justifications, only spoken because I was so terrified of annoying you. Hurting you. Trying your patience. 'Please, God, let him like me still...'

I'd lost the other two, couldn't have coped if I'd lost you, too. 'Pillar of strength' and 'backbone of the band' bedamned. I needed someone to lean on, then, just as badly as any one else.

And you were so reassuring - even when you were the one who was hurting, who was lonely. It got to the point where we no longer even spoke about it, just moved towards the same bed as if it were nothing. Maybe it was to you. And it was easier to get a little closer with each night. Until we'd curl together like puppies in the litter, sprawled so closely you couldn't tell one body from another.

It was pure accident the first time you kissed me. No amount of planning, of paranoia, nothing could persuade me you'd planned that. And it wasn't even a proper kiss, truly. Just your lips brushing air-light over my knuckles as we shifted sleepily one morning. And contrary to popular literature, it barely even registered with me. Despite those nascent feelings and desires I battled to keep out of my conscious mind and thoughts. Seemed so natural, in the slow honey light of early dawn to raise my hand to your lips, for you to lap lazily at the pads of my fingertips, tiny damp spots fizzing arousal through me. That woke us both up. But it woke us up smiling.

And neither of us could see the harm. Or the danger. It was all play, all touch for the sheer effervescent joy of touch. A logical follow-on when you were as comfortable with another's body as your own. No harm in waking up a friend with the gentle swipe of one's finger across a cheekbone, much preferable to the harshly intrusive buzz of an alarm. No danger in anointing careless open mouthed kisses to the bare back one rested against, in being at once affectionate and a little annoying. Just a way to blow off a little steam. To relax, when girlfriends were miles away, when you'd decided not to bother with those who offered themselves to you on a nightly basis. A way to reconnect with our friendship, to re-establish bonds strained by the demands of recording and everything that was changing around and within us.

Halcyon days, dizzying with freedom, with promise.

Until, slowly, their number started to drop off.

And I'd spend more nights in my own bed than in yours.

It was never discussed. Just something that happened. A little corollary to easier times, to go along with days where the music actually came. Where there was more singing than raised voices. And I didn't protest, either, because it felt more and more like what we'd been doing meant something. Like it meant something I didn't want to - wasn't ready to - deal with. Like something had changed inside me, as if my feelings hadn't shifted and run together until they'd formed an altogether new matrix, something shatteringly different that grew and solidified a little more every time I got close to you. As if everything I'd pushed away that first night was clawing its way up again, desperate to rein free.

But 'not as often' wasn't the same as 'never'. And we still spent some nights together. Just when we really needed it. Needed the contact, the closeness. The comfort of another person. You never said no. You never told me to take a running jump. And that more than anything was what convinced me that it did mean nothing to you. So I just kept repressing. Torturing myself.

I went back to my girlfriend. Pretended it had meant nothing to me, too. That I hadn't been unfaithful to her, in thought if not truly in deed. Tried not to think about you... about your warmth and your hair and your eyes and the way I'd wake up in the morning aching for you. Feeling you hard against me. That was another thing we didn't talk about. Perfectly normal, natural male fact of life. I guess you figured I was too embarrassed or something. Not for the reasons you think...

**********  


If you were any other man - almost any other person on this earth, even - I'd say that you looked almost pathetic, lying half-trashed on your bed. You haven't moved an inch since I helped you inside, just looked silently up at me, your body sprawled on top of the covers, hunched in on yourself like you're afraid to move. But 'pathetic' is a word that could never be applied to you. And not for any of the bullshit macho reasons the general public would assume. It's just not in your genetic make-up; you never give up, you never give in, for heavens sake, and you won't abide pity in any way, shape or form. You'll barely accept even sympathy most times. You make it so hard on yourself, Lar'. So cautious, so careful to not cause any one else pain on your behalf that you lock it all up inside yourself, hide behind that staunch, distant façade. But when you do break down, when it does become too much even for you, it's usually me that you come to. And God help me, but I treasure that. That trust, knowing that you know I'm always here for you. I just wish I could be there more often.

A thought that has been teasing the edges of my mind ever since we left the party finally clarifies, and I look harder at you; only now putting together all the tiny, usual clues... those faint lines around your eyes, pulled tight, the quiver that shakes your arm every now and then, the way you're breathing so shallowly, and how you winced as I hauled you out of the cab. And the pain - real, physical pain - that is reflected in your expression.

"Shit, Larry... your back's giving you trouble again, isn't it."

It's not even a question, more a bald statement of fact, and I have to restrain my initial impulse to yell at you, tell you how goddamn stupid you are to go out and get drunk and aggravate it as you've obviously done. I'm not your mother or your keeper. I'm your friend and it's past time I start acting like it again.

You sigh, and straighten up, just a little, the wince even more pronounced now, and before you can even say a word I'm digging through the drawer beside the bed, finding the pain-killers and pressing one to your lips. Not the smartest thing to do with a man who's not exactly this side of sober, but I can't bear to see you like this, and you manage - thankfully - to swallow it dry, before croaking your thanks.

I move dazedly to the bathroom, bring you back some water, and as you sip it carefully, I realise you're not quite as inebriated as I thought.

"Lar?"

I'm not certain the half-moan, half-mumble that follows my query counts as a reply - not even sure how well you're understanding, but I keep talking anyway. Now that I've got you as a captive audience, for once, I may as well take advantage of it. And if you don't remember any of this the next morning, well, that's all for the best.

"I wish you hadn't done this. You should have told me you weren't feeling too well, I wouldn't have minded leaving earlier." Understatement of the century, there. Boring party anyway. Although, aw, hell, so much for not scolding him...

The only reply I get to that is something that can charitably be described as a groan, but your eyes are still open, watching me carefully, and I'm not exactly getting the impression that you'd prefer me to 'bugger off and leave me alone', as you have so colourfully suggested on other occasions.

Standing over you as I am is beginning to feel unbalanced, not to mention tiring, so I sink to the ground and lean against the wall, knees folded up in front of me. You're still managing to focus on me, so I take that as an encouraging sign to continue my monologue.

"I wish we'd got to spend a bit more time together at the party, you know, Lar. I feel like I haven't seen you in weeks." Was that a wince? "And we've only been here a fortnight, so… I don't know. You've just seemed sort of distant recently. New girlfriend?" Definitely a wince. Hmmm. And here I was thinking my flippant careless tone was going so well. The bitter jealousy must have been evident in some way for that sort of reaction.

Then again, maybe you'd just prefer me to shut the fuck up.

That's always an option, isn't it?

"Those pills kicked in yet, mate?"

A nod, this time, and the simple fact you've managed to move your head tells me that something must be working already. I can't help the relieved smile that flirts across my lips at that thought. I hate to see you hurting.

"C'mere."

The words are hoarse, almost indistinguishable, forced out past a drugged tongue and pulled grotesquely out of shape by the slur of the alcohol still in your system.

But I still obey, wriggling forward on my knees until I'm right beside the bed, our eyes almost perfectly level. I crook an eyebrow in question, and wait, more or less patiently, for your response.

"Missed you."

Again, the words are slurred somewhat, but you've spoken so quietly that even had they been spoken with perfect clarity I would have had to strain to hear you. And I feel the impact of those quiet words as an avalanche through my chest. The raw feeling behind them shines through, calling an answering twinge from me, and I have to quench my initial impulse to fling myself at you because there is no way that you're meaning this the way I'm aching, desperate, so tempted to hear it.

Is there?

Jesus H, Clayton. Get a grip. This is Larry here. There is no way he'd ever be after you. Not least because you're another guy. A band mate. A friend. A fuck up on the epic scale.

But, there was that time-

No. That doesn't count. Doesn't mean anything. So what if I spent more nights snuggled up to you than I did with any women? Who cares if I slept better breathing in your skin than I ever did with Naomi? It was just a friend thing. Something that happened. No. Big. Deal.

Not to you, anyway.

"Missed you too, Lardence."

Somehow - and I'm more than likely just getting my hopes up for nothing, but, damnit, it's Christmas Eve and I'm letting myself have my fucking hopes for once - I'm getting the feeling we're not just talking about tonight. That we're meaning the time we've spent in this big city, all the time on tour, every minute that's passed since the last time we held each other.

"'m fuckin' knackered, Sparks."

Your words are running together now, and your eyes are closing, although I can see you're fighting it. Looks like those painkillers do act as a sedative, even combined with alcohol.

Shit. I really shouldn't leave you like this, should I?

 _... excuses, Clayton, just excuses. Aren't they? You're just looking for any reason to clamber into his bed._

It's not safe.

 _...it's also not the first time he's done this, and, oh, my, nothing's ever happened before, has it?_

You doesn't want to be alone.

The mocking voice inside my skull has no answer to that one, the mute plea in your expression tugging at parts of me I thought I'd locked off and barred aeons ago.

"Larry." One clear, perfectly pronounced, extremely deliberate word. I want your attention, as much of it as there is remaining. I wait, let you gather your energy, the faint nod enough of a salutation for me to go on.

"Would you like," somehow, my voice is perfectly level, perfectly normal, "me to stay here with you?"

Can't give any sign of how important this is to me. Can't let even a hint slip free.

And by some miracle, when you raise crimson-flecked, pained eyes to meet mine, sheer desperation naked in your face, I keep my own expression blank, hiding the fierce thrill that rushes through me as you whisper

"Please..."

********

"Larry, what did we- what just happened here?" I'm trying to sound confident, collected, maybe even aiming for a flavouring of polite inquiry in the tone, if that's not too ambitious. Just wanting to clear up the confusion. Not at all scared shitless by the prospects of what happens next. Although I'm sure that's writ clear as day in my face. I've never been able to hide much from you.

"Christ, Adam, do I have to explain to you about the birds and the bees, now?" The biting sarcasm I'd normally have expected from you is missing in action, absent for no reason that that I can discern. Instead, you're smiling, an indulgent little grin playing over your face.

 _Fuck, I want to kiss you again. Wipe that little grin right off your face._

But then again, when _don't_ I want to kiss Larry? It's an impulse I've grown used to restraining, and so despite the fact that for some inexplicable, marvellously uninhibited moment this morning it slipped the leash, I manage once more to deny myself.

"I wouldn't say no to a hands-on demonstration."

That breaks through your amused little reverie, and I get a glimpse of true emotion for a second before it's locked away again. You're as terrified as I am, damnit.

Oh, bloody hell, what happened to my talk-your-way-out-of-this-and-get-the-fuck-out-of-his-bed plan? Let's go over that again, shall we? One. Talk your way out of this. Two. Get the fuck out of his bed. Three. Take a _long_ cold shower. I'm sure flirting wasn't a featured point in that. Or even a paragraph. Although I'm certain I could hold forth chapter and verse upon the subject and- fuck, I'm babbling in my own _head_ now, must _stop_ this. Now.

"Uh," I continue cleverly. "Shit."

Shit is right. Because it's just become blindingly clear to me that there _is_ no way to talk my way out of this. I'm not even certain I want to. Charming wee Pandora's box I've opened for myself here, isn't it?

"Well," you take a deep breath, and I feel myself still, waiting for your response. All I can do at this moment is listen. It's out of my hands now, and I'm grateful, because you're so much more capable, so much... more... than I am. I trust you. I believe that you'll know.

That you'll do the right thing.

Adam Clayton, believing in something. In someone.

This isn't Christmas, it must be _Armageddon_.

"The way I see it, we have three choices. One. We forget this ever happened." Oh, fuck. So maybe I'm a little worried. Just a little. A tad. I don't want that- at all. But if it's what _you_ want... no, wait, you said 'three choices'. They'd best be better ones, Larry. "Two. We agree this was... harmless. Meant nothing." And then to round out the day, you can stab burning pokers under my nails. Because that would be _better_. ...maybe I should be sharing these thoughts after all. Because I certainly don't think much of your options so far. "Or three. We both grow enough of a spine to admit what we want, you kiss me again, and then we see what happens next."

Jesus.

I think I'd forgotten how fucking _blunt_ you can be.

"Well?" I don't think you're going to be too patient about waiting for this answer. And why should I be cruel and let you stew over it, let you worry and second guess yourself? I know exactly which _I_ prefer. And I think I'm starting to get a feeling for how you're leaning, too.

"The third option." Even at a whisper, my voice seems too loud. And not because the room is quiet - although it is. Not because it's so close to dawn that even the city around us hasn't peeked out from under the covers yet - although that's true, too. So many years, so many opportunities, missed or mishandled, the sheer weight of all the denial and fear and worry slides out of me at that admission. Imbues it with unimaginable gravity, with the solid crystalline _certainty_ that I pray you sense.

And it's worth it - all of it - to see the relief cascading over your features, lightening your eyes, the lingering embarrassment (because you're never too happy with admitting to emotions, neither of us is) suffusing your cheeks with palest pink. To see your tongue dart out to moisten your lips, and the way your eyes narrow as they see my absorption with such an ordinary, everyday motion.

There seems a certain inevitability to what happens next. Almost shyly, you tighten your grip on me, and I lean in to kiss you once more, licking at your mouth, sharing a smile as my fingers smooth lightly over your back, tracing idle sigils with no meaning more - or less - than 'I love you', sighing just a little at being finally allowed to do this. And as we lose ourselves together, I know... that we'll be finding out what happens next.

FIN


End file.
